Cold and Familiar
by renners
Summary: There was a fear in the back of his mind that he just couldn't shake. Rated for mentions of torture and future sexual content. Eventual Clintasha.
1. Chapter 1

It hurt. Everything hurt.

It felt like my body had been torn apart and sown back together again. Painful, so painful. I couldn't hear. I couldn't see. All I could do was feel - feel the torture, feel the cruel hands and the wounds that bled. Nothing made sense but in a way it did. I couldn't remember where I was, or how I got here. I couldn't remember why.

I couldn't move. My body refused to listen to what my mind told it to do. Pathetic. I felt pathetic.

Rough hands gripped me. Dug into my skin, left bruises that I would probably never see. I was hauled up, and it hurt. My legs couldn't support me and I fell. I was shoved onto a hard, cold surface, most likely metal. A medical bench for sure. I felt something sharp slice into my stomach, but I couldn't scream. Or maybe I did, but I can't hear it.

I felt blood pool over my navel and drip down my sides. How much more blood could I possibly lose?

The rough hands were back, touching me, hurting me. I couldn't fight back, I had no energy, no control. I was blind to what was going on around me and every touch made my skin feel like it was on fire.

There was a sudden bang that vibrated off of the medical bench. Maybe someone slammed their fist, or something fell. The rough hands disappeared, and I felt myself finally breath properly when I was free of their grasp.

Hands came back, but they were different. Not rough, but smooth. Cold hands. Familiar hands. They poked, prodded, felt for a pulse, checking if I was still alive. They touched my ears and it felt like something was being pushed into them, and suddenly I could hear. My hearing aids.

I could hear a voice now. Still not completely clear, but definitely there. Calling for me, begging for me. I couldn't see, but the voice was all I needed to know I was safe. It was her. It was Natasha.

I tried to move again, but still, my body refused. Her hands were back; cool and soothing and so unlike the rough hands I felt before. They caressed while her unclear voice chanted promises to me - promises of freedom and no more pain.

I listened. It was all I could do. Even though her voice was muffled by an unknown force, it calmed me. Made me feel safe. I let it anchor me, hold me and chase away the fear. Fear of rough hands and more pain. Then there was movement; I was being lifted. More hands reached out for me but they weren't the hands that I feared. They felt professional, safe, and listened for more. There were more people speaking of blood loss and drugs, and I knew it was a medical team. I heard Coulson at one point, trying to break through the fog that trapped my mind, and it was enough for me to let go, to finally let the safety engulf me and wrap me up like a blanket.

I fell unconscious. It was nice, like I was at peace. When I opened my eyes, the pain was gone, and I could finally, _finally _see. It was white, so white, and there was an irritating beeping in the corner. I was in the medical bay. Familiar.

I could still feel the cool, smooth hands that had saved me from the pain enveloping my own. I searched, pulled my mind out of the fog for the source of the comfort, and found her sitting there, by my side, frown on her brow as she drifted into a restless sleep. Her hair was familiar, her touch was familiar, and for once in such a long time, I felt safe with my hand wrapped securely in her own.

Familiar.

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_**Hi all, I know it's a bit messy at the moment, so you're going to have to wait until the next chapter to understand what's going on if you haven't already figured it out. **_

_**Leave a review, I'm excited about this and would love to hear what you all have to say about this story so far! :)**_


	2. Chapter 2

It's been a month since Clint was sent home from the hospital and it's been a month since I've seen his face.

It was obvious that something had shifted within him, because although our partnership was slightly rocky to begin with, he always made the effort to say hello. Now it was like he was deliberately avoiding me – and maybe he was.

I assumed he needed time. It was only obvious that someone who endures the torture that he did needs time to re-build themselves and re-discover who they are. He had suffered terribly; a huge drop in weight, infected wounds, and although the physical effects had taken a toll on him, he was more ashamed of the fact that he hadn't been able to protect himself.

So yeah, I gave him space. He needed the solitary, but surely a month is too long.

I found him in the shooting range. It was the first time I'd decided to search for him and this was the first place I sought out. I watched him in the doorway, noticing the dark circles under his eyes and how pale his face was. He was still too skinny; his knees and elbows and shoulders pointing out with frightening protrusion, so unlike his former build of pure muscle and strength. I could hear his breathing from across the room, rough and shallow, and judging by the sweat that coated the clothes that were too large for him, he'd been shooting for hours.

"You're going to over-work yourself if you keep straining your body like that," I finally said when he continued to ignore me. He didn't respond, and that's when I realized that his hearing aids were sitting on the side bench next to his water bottle.

It would be too dangerous to step forward and touch him when he was in sniper mode, and the shock of not hearing me might cause him to attack, so I waited him out. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he let his bow drop to his side in his hands and didn't remove another arrow from its quiver. When he turned around to pack up, he gave me a blank look; the only reaction of surprise by my presence was the slight raise of his eyebrows.

I watched him as he compacted his bow and stowed it into its case with almost loving fingers, packing up his equipment like it was a ritual. He took his time, taking off his shirt and using it to wipe the sweat from his face, and I was still shocked to see the way his ribs and hipbones poked out. Taking a swig from his bottle, he saved his hearing aids for last, turning to face me properly when they were finally in place and switched on.

"How long were you watching me for?" His voice was rough, as if he hadn't spoken in a while.

"Twenty minutes." I said, pushing myself off the doorframe and crossing the room to where he stood. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." He shrugged, never making eye contact as he leaned against the bench and stared at his feet. "Trying to bulk up a bit. I'm sick of having the body of a nine year old girl."

"Don't be irrational; you look at least twelve." He laughed, a short snort, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Why are you here, Nat?"

"You've been avoiding me." I sighed, not beating around the bush as I crossed my arms over my chest and stared him down.

"Not avoiding, just…"

"Just what, Clint?"

"I'm just trying to wrap my head around things." He finally looked up at me, eyes wide and hollow – empty.

"Have you spoken to anyone at all, Clint? Phil or a shrink?"

"No they… they don't understand. Well, Phil might, but I don't want him to see through me, I – I can't stand the judgment."

"You can't bottle these things up, Clint. They'll eat you alive." I tried to reach out for him; never good at comforting, but let my hand fall when I noticed how he tensed up.

"Is that what happened to you?"

I frowned, trying not to let my anger simmer to the surface. My past was never something I enjoyed talking about, but setting an example for Clint after what he's been through was the main thing to get him to open up, so I forced myself to calm down, because if I couldn't get through to him, than no one would.

"It was – but I learnt to block it out. I moved on, and it was hard to rebuild myself after everything the Red Room did to me, but it worked. I had no one to help me, I was all by myself, and believe me when I say it was the most depressing and loneliest time for me. I don't want you to suffer the same way that I did, Clint. You can talk to me."

He closed his eyes, and for a moment I thought he was about to start crying, but when he spoke, his voice was a low monotone, no trace of emotion.

"I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes I'm enveloped by the same darkness, and it's almost like I can feel a blade or a whip ghosting over my skin. Sometimes I can feel those hands; the rough hands that… that dominated me. Sometimes it feels like I'm having a fit. My whole body shakes and I can't breath and it's hot and cold at the same time and there's nothing I can do about it. But the worst thing is the lack of pride I have in myself. I was stripped of it because I was too weak and the only way I can get past that is by training, by making myself stronger but when I look at my body it's a constant reminder that I'm not."

He opened his eyes when I shifted closer to him and he didn't tense up when I wrapped his large hand in my own. His fingers were bony but still calloused from his intense training, and they looked tender and sore from how much pressure he was putting on himself.

"You are strong. Everyone knows that. You just need to get out of here. Take a break from guns and arrows. You could take some time off, fly to Bora Bora or something. Let yourself relax."

He turned to look at me then, a small grin plastered on his lips as he tightened his grip on my hand.

"That sounds like a nice way to level out. But I know a better place to do it."

"Oh yeah?" I smiled back when he pushed himself off the bench and grabbed his equipment, suddenly not looking so pale.

"Yeah, go pack your bags, Romanoff. And bring plenty of swimwear."

And with that, he was gone, spine protruding through his back as he walked to the change rooms, and I was left wondering if me coming was a good idea or not, but he needed my help, and I was willing to spend an entire decade to do just that.

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_**Short and straight to the point, I know, but be patient and everything will unravel in time :~) hope you enjoyed, and as always, leave a review to tell me what you think!**_


	3. Chapter 3

We go to the Seychelles. The lapping beaches are beautiful and the tropical forest is something I cannot wait to explore in, and the water is of the brightest blue that it almost looks fake. Clint owns a lovely beach house on one of the islands that has huge floor-to-ceiling windows that slide open and white curtains that float in the breeze. The floor is real wood but the bedrooms are donned with fluffy cream carpet that is so soft that it feels as though it may have never been walked upon before. Mosquito nets are draped over the huge beds and the whole house is so overly modern that I find it hard to believe it's Clint's.

"I've been here once before when I first bought it. It's just a place that I hoped to visit when I wanted to get off the grid, if you know what I mean."

And of course I know what he means; I have plenty of my own safe houses across the globe that have hardly, if ever, been visited before.

We separate ways and unpack our luggage. My bedroom also has floor-to-ceiling windows that slide open and I have a peaceful view of the powder-like sand that stretches out until it joins with the calm ocean. Palm trees surround the house and provide shade, but there are also huge blinds that I can pull down to block out the sun in the mornings.

I unpack my clothes and hang them in the wardrobe and fold them in the draws, hiding my guns and knives in easily accessible places. Just in case. I slide open the windows and let the salty breeze blow into my room, so unlike the polluted air of the city, before leaving to find Clint.

He's sitting on his bed and staring out at the ocean. He hasn't unpacked his bag yet and his shirt looks like its about to slip off of his shoulder as he slumps forward.

"We should head down to the markets and grab some supplies." I say instead of knocking on the door. He doesn't turn around to acknowledge me so I step into his room and stand in front of him. We talked about supplies on the plane, and Clint wanted to bulk up as soon as possible which meant most of the food we'd eat would consist of chicken, egg and fish.

"Clint?" I press, and he finally tears his eyes away from the window to look at me.

"You can go if you want. I'm… tired." He mumbled.

"You can't hide in here forever, Clint. Someone's going to see your body sooner or later and they wont judge you – "

"Of course they'll judge me, Nat. I'm in the Seychelles with a beautiful woman and here I am looking like a kid who hasn't hit puberty yet." He sighed and dropped down onto his back, running his hand over the mosquito net absently.

I just shook my head and crossed my arms over my chest. "I'll be back soon."

I change into some comfortable clothing and head out to the market, playing my French like it's my first language and buying all of the required protein food Clint needs along with fresh fruit and vegetables. When I make my way back to the beach house, there are surfers wandering along the sand and I frown because there is no way Clint will swim in the ocean when there are the eyes of another male making fun of his body.

.

The first night is quiet and neither of us really talk. I read a book and Clint hides in his room. I cook dinner and that's the only time I see him as he forces every last bite into his stomach. The night is warm and I consider going for a swim but I feel guilty for leaving Clint out of the fun and instead retire for the night.

That is, until the screaming starts.

It was quiet at first, and I wake immediately. I wonder if I'm just hearing things, until another terrible moan echoes through the house and I can hear Clint start to panic.

Immediately I slip out of bed and push past the mosquito net, rushing to Clint's room and slamming the door open so roughly that it hits the wall. He's curled up on his side and is fisting the pillow between his hands with such force that I'm afraid it'll tear. He's whimpering and sounding like a lost child before another ferocious scream erupts from his throat and I'm at his side within a second.

He wakes when I call his name and his eyes are ablaze, wild and feral. I think that he's going to attack me but he simply closes his eyes again and buries his face in his pillows. He doesn't make another sound but silent sobs wrack through his body and I suddenly find myself unsure of what to do.

"Clint." I say, steady and calm because he doesn't want to be coddled. He doesn't reply, just lets the shaking subside. He's glistening with sweat and I pull the sheets down from his body and open up his windows, letting the mild breeze air out the room. I leave and return with a glass of water and a wet flannel, and I sit on his bed and wait until his breathing is even before gently grabbing his shoulder and pulling him so he's laying flat on his back.

"Talk to me, Clint."

He sighs in relief when I pass him the glass of water and he downs the entire thing before lying down again. I press the flannel to his brow and he closes his eyes under the cool fabric, before using it to wipe his sweat-covered face.

"It's the hands again." He whispers, shaky and frightened.

"What about them?" I press, placing the flannel back on his brow again.

"I just… can't shake the feeling of them. They're everywhere. Unrelenting and rough."

He spoke to me about rough hands before. Once in the hospital after he woke up and then in the gym a month later. We don't know for sure why Clint was captured and held hostage for nearly three weeks but we do know that what he suffered would scar him mentally.

"Yours are different though." He says after a while, and grips one of my hands in his own. "They're thin and pale, and they are always cold. Even here, in this heat, your fingers have a cool touch to them, like they're three steps behind the current temperature. It's reassuring and it's familiar. I like your hands."

He's babbling now and I almost sigh in relief. I was hardly ever put in the position where I was required to comfort someone so this was all new to me, but it was good that Clint was able to look past the imperfections.

"Well, they'll always be here, just down the hall." I smile but he doesn't see it, is still staring blankly at my hand as he holds it tight.

"Do you think I'm weak?" He asks suddenly, eyes flashing to my face where he can ready my expression.

I don't need to think twice before I answer. "No."

He breathes out and doesn't say anything else, and I slip my hand from out of his grasp and stand up.

"Try to get some more sleep, okay?" I say and he nods reluctantly. I pull the sheets over his waist and make sure there are no gaps in the mosquito net before making my way out of the room without another word. I leave both of our doors open and fall asleep after a while. There's only one disturbance after that, where I can hear Clint pacing restlessly in his room, but I don't get up to help because even though he needs the company, he also needs to think for himself sometimes.

In the morning, we don't speak of the night's events and this time he cooks breakfast and makes his plate extra large, shovelling down the eggs like it's the last thing he'll do.

Coulson calls me and I step outside and walk along the sand as I tell him about Clint's refusal to go outside, and he tells me to be patient and give him time.

That afternoon I go for a hike through the forest, and purposely step off the trail and create my own. The greenery is beautiful and there are colourful birds and flowers and butterflies that make the entire place seem unreal, and I come across a location that absolutely blows my mind.

I smile and write down the coordinates on my map, throwing one last glance at the lagoon before making my way back to the beach house with a plan forming in my mind.

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_**Leave a review and tell me what you think!**_


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